


W - A Creepypasta

by BigBlueButtonMan



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Ben Shapiro - Freeform, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Comedy, Creepypasta, Dark Comedy, Death, Funny, Hilarious, Hilarity, Hilarity Ensues, Humor, Humorous Ending, Minor Character Death, Non-Canonical Character Death, POV First Person, Parody, Parody Creepyasta, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27485356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigBlueButtonMan/pseuds/BigBlueButtonMan
Summary: Trump has just lost the 2020 election. He was afraid that the IRS and the Democrats would come after him. But something much worse would haunt him after being kicked out of the Oval Office by the military......Something from the past...
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2
Collections: Political and society fics





	W - A Creepypasta

My name is Donald J Trump, and I am a popular TV host. I think, anyway, OAN told me so. And they are very reliable, extremely reliable, bigly. I am also an ex-president. It’s not my fault, it was the military’s fault, because they kicked me out on inauguration day. I got 100 million ballots, Biden did not. It’s the truth. The election was rigged.

  
The system was also rigged when I was sued, when I was bankrupted, and when congress didn’t do what I wanted. The world is truly against me, they cannot stand my brilliant hair.

  
Ever since I left, things have been awful. Imagine having your Twitter machine banned. How can some survive without their Twitter machine? Stephen Colbert continued to make fun of me after my presidency...and I wasn’t able to Tweet about it once. I’ll get him back, I will run in 2024 as the ULTIMATE game show host. I have been practicing, I remade the Oval Office in Trump Tower...I made it better, actually. Not enough glittery Trump signs in the real thing.

  
I have been hit with extremely large amounts of indictments and lawsuits by angry New Yorkers. They’re just a bunch of stupid Liberals who watch CNN too much and think I was born in Russia. Why would anyone make such a baseless and stupid assertion?

  
Every time I go out into public, somebody says “Fuck Trump,” it’s extremely horrifying. I am afraid of my safety. Why wouldn’t anyone be afraid of their safety when they say “fuck you?” Even Ben Shapiro abandoned me. He said “Piss off Trump, you didn’t invade enough countries and bomb enough Mudslimes.” Hey, I worked hard to drone strike and sanction people into oblivion. Is that not enough? How many people do you have to kill to get the approval of Ben Shapiro? It’s outrageous.

  
But this is not the worst thing. When I was walking back dejected after the generals dragged me out, I remembered something. From the beginning of my former Presidency, someone had come to my office in a dark cloak. Although it seemed that the dark-cloaked figure had trouble opening the door to get in. I don’t know why. It’s just a door.

  
Once he was in, he said “Hello Donald John Duck, I have a favor to ask of ya. You think you can take out I-Ran? They, uhh, kind of ran away from me, if you know what I mean...you just want to borrow some friends’ stuff and they don’t like it...I’d like you to do it for me instead. You know, otherwise...bad things might happen at the end of it all. But first let’s have a beer? We’ll remember some good ol days.” At first I thought nothing of it. It’s typical for dark-cloaked figures to come in and welcome new presidents, right? At least I think so. I doubt OBAMA had dark-cloaked figures come in to ask favors of him. Worst president ever!

  
I said “I don’t know, I might do it and take out the Ran, I might not, I have to think about it, both sides are very intrigued by what to do about Iran, I’ll think about it very closely with some very smart people, very closely indeed.”

  
The cloaked figure said “Good...good, thank you. I always loved the aroma of the wood of the Oval Orifice. It reminds me of wooden barns.”

  
We had a lot of beer that night. I think I had so much beer that I might have forgotten about it until now. But that’s what happens when cloaked figures come to your house. You have beers with them, until you throw up next morning.

  
As I was going back from being thrown out, I saw a sign. A light sign, whatever you want to call it, that suddenly flashed from “Banger Chicks 666, get satanic in this bitch” to “W is coming.” I don’t know why it said that. Why would the letter W ever have something against me? It’s just a letter.

  
As I got back to my Trump Tower and cried on the shoulders of my family, particularly my son, that Trevor Noah did not Noah thing about my brilliant ability to write fancy papers into important places, I realized that someone was watching through the window from the corner of my eye.

  
I was frightened, and immediately shrieked like a little girl, but it’s okay, because it was just for 2 seconds. If you do it for 3, you’re a sissy! I asked my son about it and he just said I was crazy and seeing things.

  
I do not remember what the figure looked like, just that he had bushy hair. Very bushy hair. Why would strange stalkers have bushy hair? It’s not very intimidating, nor is it the proper hairstyle of any of my fans. Maybe I was just seeing things, like when I saw Obama flashing before my eyes when Joe Biden was declared the winner by AP News.

  
It was 2 weeks later, and signs were coming everywhere. A TV flashed by me with “Why didn’t you do it?” Someone walked by me and said “You must meet him.” Another time, I was walking to the elevator and I swear I saw a paper note say “You did not Win Iran, you must see him” with W capitalized and in red.

  
Why does the alphabet hate me so much?

  
I ignored it, because who is going to listen to losers that are obsessed with the alphabet? Did QAnon turn into WAnon? They were cooler when they loved the letter Q. Way cooler.

  
All of these sorts of signs flashed by me every day for the next month. “You were the Worst president,” for example, with W also capitalized and written in a scary font. “W is disappointed.” Finally, one day, something horrible happened.

  
My family gave me an alert on the phone, while they were off shopping for my latest suit. Why should I do it myself, when you have fams that will do it for you? My son said, in a screeching voice, “W IS COMIN-”

  
Bang.

  
And the phone cut off.

  
I called my 3 wives.

  
And 3 times, “W IS COMI-”

  
Bang.

  
What is going on? Who is killing my family? What will I do without them?

  
Who will help sell my books now?

  
I ran back to my room, and boarded up everything I could, with whatever I could. I did not want to use the fancy wardrobe with all my favorite clothes and MAGA hats, but it would have to do. I blocked the door with it, along with the bed, and the chandeliers. 

  
I hid in the bathroom.

  
A loud crashing sound happened. I don’t know why, but I could feel a pair of eyes on me, when I couldn’t even see who entered the building. How was that possible? Was Obama after me? But he does not have anything to do with Ws, just Os.

  
Finally, I heard something. In a shrill, satanic Texan accent.

  
“All I wanted was the Oil, Donald Duck. You just had to get the oil.”

  
Finally, the bathroom door was destroyed in a flaming explosion, and he entered the room.

  
But I looked up. It wasn’t Barack O’Bummer. It was...Bush-head? What the hell? He was in his typical suit, but it was vanta-black, instead of normal black. It was a very scary black, scarier than Obama’s black...uhh...suit on the day of that awful correspondence dinner. And Bush’s tie was even more red than usual. His eyes were blood red. Not the white part, the actual colored part of the eye. Eye forgot what that was called. His hair was flaming. And his skin was red-hot. He looked...like a red menace. 

  
He had a golden eagle in his hand, with “Dubya The Great” emblazoned on it. It was smoking from the barrel, but the smoke was different. It was...energized. Like the smoke had taken an energy drink.

  
I didn’t know what to do.

  
“Why did you kill my whole family? Their Twitter accounts were very good PR for me! They were the only ones not banned!”

  
“I gave you one job, Rump. Just get the oil. Just get Iran, and you couldn’t do it.”

  
“But why? I killed Solemani!”

  
“You didn’t go far enough.”

  
“...Why is this important? I killed people with drones and sanctions, wasn’t that enough!”

  
“We have a New American Century ahead of us, Donald. All the presidents and candidates since my time were tasked with implementing the New American Century. Drone strikes and sanctions are not enough. They never will be. I kept a close eye on them, I curated them all very carefully. Unfortunately, you put a bit of a stop-gap into that. You weren’t supposed to be president...but I made dew. I tried to push you in the right direction. My disciple John Bolton was there for you. And you rejected him.”

  
“What the hell is the New American Century? Why do you have...disciples!? Are you evil Jesus or something?”

  
“A Project. We always knew the process of transformation, which would bring much needed revolutionary change, was likely to be a long one...absent some catalyzing event. America must not be allowed to lose. America must be allowed to have as much oil as it wants. It was the step to total Pax Americana. Unfortunately, we were not able to properly destabilize Russia. I tried to get Obama to send cocaine to Russia, like Reagan sent cocaine to Nicaraugua, but he could only be influenced so much. In the end, it never happened. And China is looking to put a dent in things. And you couldn’t fight them. You couldn’t. It’s a shame you couldn’t have done one solitary thing to bring the New American Century forth.”

  
“...You...you’ve been behind our foreign policy this whole time? All the Democratic and Republican candidates…? You...you handpicked them?”

  
“Yes. It was very easy. Either they are active in our project, or passive enough to be influenced. If they don’t...we know what happens to them. Two shots to the back of the head. Suicide.”

  
“...That was...wasn’t that the evil Clitons fault!?”

  
“I gave the order. She executed it.”

  
“But...but...I still ordered a bunch of war-hawk stuff to be done about Russia! Like pulling out of the nuclear arms treaties, come on man! Can’t I pull out of nuclear arms treaties in peace?”

  
“That’s not enough, Trumple Truffle.”

  
“Why? Why!? I also sanctioned Venezuela! It has OIL!”

  
“But you didn’t take it.”

  
“Please...please don’t kill me…”

  
“Too late, cowboy. But before you go, just know…”

  
“...What?”

  
He pointed his gun at me, and smiled maliciously.

  
“...I knocked down the Towers.”


End file.
